


His father saw him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Consent Issues Exchange 2019, Father/Son Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Shame, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-07 08:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Malcolm suspected something was wrong with him as soon as he woke up and unlocked the manacles around his wrists. By the time he’d lined up his daily prescription drug regimen out on the countertop, he was certain of it: He was going into heat. The heat suppressants had stopped working.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 21
Kudos: 259
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	His father saw him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).

**\- 1999 -**

Chronic stress hastened the onset of puberty. This phenomenon was well understood. It therefore came as no surprise to anyone that less than a year after Dr. Martin Whitly was arrested and charged with the murders of at least twenty-three people, his son Malcolm presented as an Omega.

Malcolm also went immediately into his first heat upon presentation. This was unusual. Under normal circumstances, constant exposure to high concentrations of a father’s pheromones—from living with him under the same roof, for example—would naturally function to suppress a son’s twice-annual mating heats. But Malcolm’s father was behind bars.

And so Malcolm, too young for chemical suppressants and much, _much_ too young for actual sex, was forced to remain indoors, lest he be accosted on the streets by a stranger Alpha. He spent most of his first heat secluded in his bedroom and suffering alone, sweating, writhing, praying for release from torment that never seemed to arrive.

“Can I get you something, honey?” asked his mother from the doorway. Her mouth was tense with worry. “Something to drink? Some ice?”

“N-no, Mom, I’m fine. Just . . . I’m trying to get some rest.”

Mother’s nostrils flared. She could judge the progression of his heat cycle by smell. “Alright. Call if you need anything.”

“Please close the door.” He wanted privacy.

“. . . alright.”

She blamed his father, of course. This should not be happening. Malcolm’s suffering was just one more way Martin had failed and betrayed her and his family.

As soon as he was alone again, he fished the sweater he’d hidden hastily underneath his pillow and pressed it to his nose and lips. It’d been his father’s, borrowed on an unseasonably cold day two years ago and later forgotten in the back of Malcolm’s closet. This sweater was all he had left of Martin Whitly after his mother had torn through the house in a rage and thrown everything else away.

He inhaled deeply. His father’s scent still clung faintly to the woolen threads, and the familiarity of it gave him comfort. It helped him feel less scared of what was happening to him. Less alone.

But alas, it wasn’t nearly enough to ease the symptoms of his heat. Malcolm’s hand slipped down between his legs where he was aching and swollen and wet, and he brought himself to orgasm like that, desperate, full of shame, his face buried in his father’s sweater, enveloped in the memory of the warm, spicy smell of his Alpha father’s body.

**\- 2019 -**

Malcolm suspected something was wrong with him as soon as he woke up and unlocked the manacles around his wrists. By the time he’d lined up his daily prescription drug regimen out on the countertop, he was certain of it: He was going into heat. The heat suppressants had stopped working.

It was a risk, particularly for an Omega who’d been taking them as long as Malcolm had, and the anti-anxiety meds he took along with them was known to increase the risk. But Malcolm figured that his psyche was enough of a trash fire already, and the absolute last thing he needed was an Omega’s uncontrollable libido and all of the . . . confused . . . _ashamed . . . _desires of his miserable adolescence added on top. If the heat suppressants suddenly stopped working? Well, Malcolm Bright would cross that bridge when he came upon it.

Now, it seemed, he’d come to it. He called in sick at the station and asked them to cancel his afternoon appointment at the psychiatric hospital with Dr. Whitly. He texted his mother and rescheduled their lunch date for tomorrow, which ought to buy him at least 24 hours Mother-Free. Then he went straight back to bed and prayed fate would be merciful.

As usual, fate wasn’t. When he awoke some unspecified number of hours later, he was lightheaded and burning with fever. His mouth was dry. His skin prickled, like he was wrapped in a blanket of needles. And he was aroused, his body crying out for . . . for . . .

Malcolm was fingering himself open with both hands before he realized that he shouldn’t have been able to do that, that his wrists should have been secured in their manacles—

“Oh Malcolm, my boy. What have you done to yourself?”

Malcolm froze, fear washing over him as his father’s body slid heavily into bed beside him. The mattress creaked as Martin arranged the covers over both of them, and he cringed when his father’s bare flesh brushed against his. This had to be a dream, right? A nightmare brought on by the heat? It couldn’t possibly be real!

“D-dad . . . ?” he whispered. He was shaking; he couldn’t stop.

“This is a classic High Heat, Malcolm. Textbook. Very bad.”

Malcolm gulped, his stomach sinking with nausea. Frustrated tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. High Heats occurred in a small percentage of instances when heat suppressants failed, and instead of burning themselves out naturally over the course of a week or so, they continued unabated until the reproductive urge was sated or the hormonal imbalance was chemically corrected. If neither could be accomplished, the Omega risked death.

Theoretically. Not that anyone had ever let a High Heat get so far. Malcolm was the sort of person who might have been inclined to test the theory, though.

“B-but your scent, a f-father’s pheromones—” Malcolm began. He was having difficulty getting his tongue to shape words.

“Aren’t strong enough to suppress a High Heat in an adult son. An alternative solution is required.”

“W-wait, do you mean . . . ?”

“Aren’t you lucky I’m here?” His father stroked sweat damp hair off of his forehead and wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. A big Alpha cock brushed against Malcolm’s hip—his father’s. And it was hard.

Abject, paralyzing terror surged through Malcolm. “Dad, no!!” he cried.

And then Martin was on top of him, all around him, _inside of him_, so deep inside of him that he could feel every curve, every tiny imperfection, every squiggle of vein, and Malcolm came like a thermonuclear bomb, just from that, fluid gushing out of him, because he wasn’t in control and no one had ever touched him so intimately before. And the person who was touching him like this was _his father_.

“Mmm, you’re very tight. You’ve never taken an Alpha before, have you, my boy?”

“Dad, I—” It was true. That orgasm had bought him a moment of clarity. He’d never trusted anyone enough to be this vulnerable with them, never trusted _himself_ enough. And besides, what he’d really wanted, what he’d really, really wanted—

“I’ll make it good for you, I promise,” his father said. His cock brushed Malcolm’s prostate gland then, so sweet a touch it made him emit a convulsive sob. “That’s right. You can relax now. Dad’s here. Enjoy yourself.”

After that, Malcolm was glad Martin had freed his wrists, because it meant he could embrace his father, wrap his arms around him as well as his legs and hold him tight as he thrust powerfully into him, again and again and again, each stroke precise and perfect, exactly how Malcolm needed them, exactly how, in his most secret, darkest of moments, he’d always wanted them. If this was a dream, it was the absolute best.

Martin rained tender, worshipful kisses all over his son’s face, and Malcolm reciprocated as best he could. After a while, though, he couldn’t keep track of what he was doing, he could only yield to the rhythm of his father’s thrusts into him, could only cling on for dear life, nose pressed against the scent gland behind his father’s ear—warmth and spice, exactly as he remembered, the smell of home and happiness and safety—as the bed shook with the force of their lovemaking.

Yes, this was everything he’d ever wanted. His father, returned to him. Holding him close, wrapping him in his protective scent. Comforting him. _Loving him._ Pain blossomed in his chest, but it was a good pain. Yes, this had to be a dream.

Dimly, Malcolm realized he was babbling. “Oh please, Dad, I want you to . . . I needed . . . I need . . .” He lifted his hips, urging his father to take him harder, faster, deeper. They were Alpha and Omega, but they were also father and son. They were both; they were more. “Dad, I love you so much . . . !”

His father moaned brokenly in response, and his thrusts faltered momentarily as his knot everted from its sheath. “Oh Malcolm, my boy, I love you, too . . . I’ll take care of you . . . you’ll be safe . . . and I’ll protect you, I promise . . . so many years, too many years . . . you’ll never be afraid or hurt or lonely again . . . !”

With one last, mighty shove, his father pushed his knot in, and Malcolm’s body locked down around it, wracked by a second explosive orgasm. His father rocked his hips so that Malcolm could feel the fullness, the stretch, and then he too began to come.

Coming. Inside of him. Unprotected. At Malcolm’s peak fertility. Malcolm shrieked into his father’s shoulder as he came yet again.

The breeding seemed to last an eternity, pulse after pulse after pulse of semen pouring from the father’s cock and into the son. And it felt so good. So, so good. Euphoric. Malcolm had already fallen into blissful sleep before their bodies came untied.

When he next awoke, he was alone in his bed, and his wrists were manacled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so well-rested. His heat must’ve burnt itself off.

He’d almost convinced himself it was just a dream and his father’s beloved scent all over him just a trick of a wishful mind when he noticed that his heat suppressant prescription was missing from the countertop. In its place was one Plan B morning after pill and an unsigned note in his father’s precise, handsome handwriting:

_No more heat suppressants for you—doctor’s orders. Let’s work out an alternative treatment regimen together, shall we?_

When his cell began to ring, he ignored it; he already knew it would be about Dr. Martin Whitly’s prison break. Instead, Malcolm picked up the morning after pill, rubbing his belly idly, and wondered whether or not he would actually take it.


End file.
